


singing god forgive me please

by Ahavaa



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, M/M, Power Dynamics, a little bit of manipulation?, everyone has a lot of feelings, hardcore bdsm handholding, matt tries really hard all the time, no dubcon, ok no seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:22:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4174569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahavaa/pseuds/Ahavaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>cause i want you on your knees </p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <a href="http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/1296.html?thread=2107152#cmt2107152">this prompt</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HARDCORE BDSM HANDHOLDING, alternatively "the fluffiest most poorly-researched bdsm story about how matt wants foggy to put him on his knees and slap his face until he cries and foggy can't figure out how to do that without messing up matt's daredevil gig." yeah. idek either but like. yeah. 
> 
> you ARE correct, title is from that one of verona's "slightly kinky" song, why? because i am a TRASH CLICHE, that is why!

"Hold still," Foggy said. It came out pissed? Good. He was pissed: Matt had come knocking on his window at three in the morning because he needed help getting the glass out of his face and scalp. His oldest sister Alicia's kid had once managed to smash a lightbulb over his head. The theory was the same: find the pieces of glass, carefully pull them out (always a fun time, because they were of course slippery with blood). Coat the entire skull with neosporin. 

Matt, though, had more than a couple things in common with Benny, including the inability to sit still whenever anyone was trying to give him first aid. Foggy had lost hold of this particular chunk of glass three times already. The third time he'd managed to cut his own thumb, and it was late, and he had the fuzzy-headed feeling that the whole thing wasn't quite real. It was very similar to a few pointed nightmares that had taken on reoccurring roles in his subconscious, but the blood? Never smelled blood in dreams. 

"You cut yourself," Matt said. He sounded both worried and obstinate, and he was _still moving_ , which was the only reason that Foggy had - 

"I said _hold still_ ," Foggy said, and gave some of Matt's bloody hair a short pull for emphasis. 

Which was when the Weird Thing happened. 

"Oh," Matt said, and his shoulders relaxed, and his head sagged forward. "Kay," and it was like instead of vibrating an inch off the seat of the old kitchen chair Foggy had put him on, he sank into it. Got grounded. Grew roots. Whatever. 

"You okay down there?"

"Uh," Matt said. Shit, Foggy hoped he didn't have a concussion. "Yeah," he said, slow, a little dreamy. "I'm good."

"Tell me if you're gonna throw up," Foggy said, because as much as he loved Matt, he had absolutely no desire to get stuck cleaning up vomit at three thirty when they both had work tomorrow. 

"Uh huh," Matt said. He sounded - 

Foggy had heard people sound like that before, he'd _made_ people sound like that before, but not - never in a context like this, and he'd definitely never heard Matt sound like that before. (He'd - well. He wasn't a saint, he wasn't going to say that he'd never _wanted_ to hear Matt sound like this, but never when he had a head full of glass. It was really probable that Foggy was sublimating, assigning meaning to a situation that didn't have that - that particular meaning. 

Fuck, he needed another two hours of sleep if he was going to be any use in the office tomorrow.) He shook his head a little: back in the game, Nelson. 

"Or pass out," Foggy said. Matt wasn't clenching his fists together anymore: in fact, one of his hands had fallen, lax, to his side. Foggy could see it. He looked totally _relaxed_ , great, he was about to pass out, and Foggy wasn't going to catch him in time, and he was probably going to land on his face and break his nose. 

"M not gonna pass out," Matt said. He sounded a little - surprised? but mostly, suddenly, like he was drunk: "or throw up, it's good, I -" he took a deep, slow breath, deep and slow enough that Foggy could both see it and feel it, from where he had one arm braced on Matt's bare shoulder, "I like knowing you're looking out for me," he said. 

Weird. 

Fucking weird, because - because normally that kind of emotional confession was the sort of thing Matt only engaged in when he was almost unconscious. 

"Tell me if it changes," Foggy said. 

"Feels good," Matt said, a couple of minutes later. 

"Me pulling glass out of you? Happy one of us is enjoying it," Foggy said, and felt bad about that, because Matt was normally a terrible patient and Foggy was normally a terrible "nurse," but it wasn't anyone's fault, exactly, that Claire was out of town. So he squeezed Matt's shoulder, firmly, and - on impulse - leaned forward to kiss the least-bloody side of his head. 

Look, it was late, it had been a long night, he just wanted - he didn't know. To let Matt know that he was loved, that Foggy still did love him, that the early-morning "can you get glass out of my head" stuff was okay, he wasn't actually resentful. 

Matt shivered, like he was picking up all the air currents in the room. 

"You taking care of me," he said, slow, slurry. "Feels good."

 

**

 

He probably wouldn't have thought anything more of it – Matt was odd, Matt had just gotten smashed over the head, he loved Matt – if Matt hadn't gotten _even weirder_ about it over the next couple of days. 

Defensive. 

A little pissed off. 

It's just that. 

Foggy's seen that before, with people who - 

Some people didn't think they should like getting topped as much as they do, so they got pissy about it. Lashed out. 

(And some of the stuff Matt said, over the next couple of days, came out suspiciously similar to things that Foggy has heard from other people. “you're not in charge of me,” and “i bet you'd _like_ it if I let you make all the decisions, but you don't get to.") 

So he backed off, backed way the fuck off, because the last thing he needed was Matt doing something dumb. 

And then they go out drinking. 

Matt got _trashed_ , Matt almost never got trashed. He wasn't normally much of a drinker, but this time Matt was stumbling and leaning hard against Foggy and – not faking it, he _actually_ needed help getting into the cab. Foggy planned on sending him home, but at the last second Matt grabed his coat sleeve, said “lemme see you home, though,” which was ridiculous but Matt meant it. “I just want to make sure you're home okay,” said the guy who couldn't walk a straight line three minutes ago. (Foggy got it: it was a product of the Daredevil thing; Matt got protective of him and Karen, and more so since he'd let them both in on the secret.) 

And then Matt followed him up into the apartment, and stood by the door, looking – woozy, sure, but also _miserable_ , what, he was really tense, Foggy was tipsy but Matt looked - _awful_ , just fucking wrecked. 

“Man, sit your ass down,” Foggy said, suddenly actually worried, fuck it, he was gonna boss Matt around for his own good, Matt could throw a fit tomorrow. “Lemme get – water,” and he was in the kitchen getting a glass and the Brita pitcher when he – it wasn't a revelation, it was an instinct, a hunch, a _wait one second here_ kind of a moment. Not a lightbulb, more like stubbing your toe in the dark and realizing _fuck, there's something there_. 

Matt had said that he liked it when – sure, he may or may not have had a concussion, but - 

“Don't be mad,” Matt said, from where he was sitting on one of Foggy's two shitty kitchen chairs, which was a nonsense thing to say unless maybe Foggy's idea that there was something there was _right_ , after all, and – and okay, maybe he was wrong, maybe he was going to owe Matt a huge apology for this, but there was something telling him he was _right_ , a weird hot zing that said bingo. Gotcha, Murdock. There you are. 

“I'm not mad, Matt,” Foggy said, and “drink your water.”

Matt put out a hand for the glass. 

“No,” Foggy said, carefully. Held the rim of the glass up to Matt's mouth with one hand, caught Matt's reaching hand with his. Puzzle pieces maybe weren't clicking into place, exactly, but – oh – there we were, because Matt gripped his hand _very tightly_ and took half a breath. Foggy saw his shoulders get looser. “I gotcha, honey,” Foggy said, feeling like he was on a tightrope that might have been six inches off the ground or twenty feet off the ground, who the fuck knew, _honey_ might be pushing it but it felt _right_ , he didn't know why - 

“Yeah,” Matt said. His mouth went soft and relaxed. 

Foggy fed Matt the whole glass of water, sip by sip, little bit at a time, and Matt drank it, slow, with his eyes shut, looking more relaxed than he had in two weeks. 

“You should crash here,” Foggy said. 

Matt shook himself, a little; he opened his eyes. “I should go,” he said. 

“Matt,” Foggy said. Matt was still holding his hand; Foggy turned their hands until he could get his fingers around Matt's wrist. He squeezed, once, and Matt's eyelids dropped to half-mast. “Stay here.”

“Yeah,” Matt said, and he was _breathless_ , fuck, this was - 

Foggy wondered, just for a minute, what Matt might do if Foggy told him to get on his knees. 

Matt took a deep, slow breath; fuck, Foggy hoped that Matt couldn't smell the half-a-hard-on he'd – they were _drunk_ , Foggy thought. Not _tonight_.


	2. Chapter 2

Next morning, Matt looked skittish: Foggy was pretty sure that if he'd woken up first, he would've dived out the window and contracted a sudden and convenient case of amnesia. 

“So last night,” he said, faux-casually, best defense was a strong offense and all that, they were going to talk about it, “I liked that.”

“Sorry to be a pain,” Matt said, stiffly, “I didn't mean to -”

“You weren't a pain,” Foggy said. “I said I liked it.”

“I didn't,” Matt lied outright, which was – he was shaking, a little bit. 

“Matt,” Foggy said, “why don't you get down, you look a little – wobbly.” 

“How would that help,” Matt said, angrily, and Foggy reached out and held his hand. 

“On your knees, sunshine,” he said. 

Matt's nostrils flared. He swallowed hard; Foggy saw it. He didn't say anything. Not _no_. Not _what are you talking about_. 

“I'm not doing it _to you_ ,” Foggy said, “it's a thing _we're_ doing.” 

Matt stood there shaking, holding onto Foggy's hand very tightly, for so long that Foggy was pretty sure he'd fucked it up entirely, guessed wrong, swing and a miss, Nelson, and then - 

without letting go of Foggy's hand - 

he went down to his knees. 

“Augh,” he said, and _rested his head against Foggy's thigh_ , “this is stupid, I shouldn't have.” 

“Doesn't feel stupid to me,” Foggy said, gently. “You look -” 

“ _Don't_ ,” Matt said, immediately, hard: the pressure of his hand on Foggy's suddenly reminded him that this was the guy who spent twenty hours a week dangling from rooftops and getting into fights, “just. Give me a minute.” 

Stand above Matt, see him shirtless and scarred up and _on his knees_ for Foggy, because he'd asked him? 

He was maybe not breathing so steadily himself, here, this was a _rush_. The kind of suicidal bungee-jumping rush that was probably going to end in disaster, but – but good fucking god, Matt's head was on his thigh, Matt was _holding his hand_ , Matt had _drank water from Foggy's hand last night_ , and it was - 

Matt turned his head. His breath was hot and damp against the front of Foggy's sweatpants, which necessarily meant that his breath was hot and damp up against Foggy's _dick_. He shuddered, just a little. 

“I can,” Matt said, sounding a little more relaxed, a little sleepy, again: “no problem.” 

“Don't worry about it,” Foggy said. 

“No problem,” Matt repeated, so Foggy grabbed him by the hair and said “ _no_ , Matt.” 

He got more of Matt's weight up against him; Matt was leaning, pressing into him. Oh. Oh oh oh. 

Matt took a shaky breath. Foggy heard it. 

“I don't need you to take care of me,” Matt said. 

“Nah,” Foggy said. Twisted some of Matt's hair around his fingers; oh, look, Matt liked that. “I don't mind, though. You look - “

“Weak,” Matt said, and his lip curled, rueful and disgusted, all at once. 

_don't get mad don't get mad_ went through his head with the same electric brushfire crackle of lightning, and because he couldn't get mad at _whoever_ had told Matt that, once upon a time, he had to be honest, and so he said “brave. Hot. Hot and brave, you jerk,” way too fast. 

The sound that came out of Matt's mouth wasn't quite a whine, and it wasn't quite a moan, and Matt was blushing, but he wasn't moving. “You don't want - ?” 

“I want coffee,” Foggy decided, because it was too early in the morning, he was going to fuck this up. 

He started for the kitchen, and Matt went to get up, and - 

“no, stay there,” he said. Matt panted, once, open-mouthed like he'd been hit, which was _gorgeous_ and why Foggy didn't realize his mistake for a solid three seconds. “Wait, no, I'm an idiot, I saw that road rash on your knees – c'mon, on the carpet, by the – by the couch.” 

“It's fine,” Matt said, but he got up and walked, unsteadily, to Foggy's couch, and _dropped to his knees_ again, hands on his thighs. Waiting there. For Foggy. 

He had to palm his dick, then, give it a quick squeeze. _not now_ , he thought, not quite yet, but Matt was – oh, this was _insane_ , best possible insane, what the fuck. 

“Knees okay?” he asked. Water. You needed – he needed to boil water, to make coffee. 

“Yeah,” Matt said. He sounded – Foggy honestly had no idea what Matt sounded like, but he wanted to hear more of it. 

“Don't bullshit me,” he said. 

“Don't nag,” Matt said, immediately. Foggy wanted to see what Matt would do, so he didn't say anything. “Hurts,” Matt said, a minute later. Foggy snuck a glance into the living room: Matt tipped his head back, and he was smiling, fuck, “I like it.” And then, full-out smile, with teeth: “I heard that.” 

“I'll bet you did,” Foggy said, because _goddamnit_ , of course Matt would be the kind of person to say shit like that, and – and he'd almost spilled boiling water all over the kitchen floor. “Black?” 

He took a little longer in the kitchen than he absolutely had to, both because he wanted to give Matt a minute to get his head on right and because Foggy needed a fucking minute. Matt. Matt _on his knees_ , this was. Sure, he'd heard it before: through Columbia, in Hell's Kitchen, there were plenty of people willing to wax rhapsodic about Matt Murdock's red cocksucking lips. None of them – or very few of them – had seen what Matt looked like when his plush red lips were relaxed in sleepy pleasure: it was a little addicting. Terrifying. One of those things. 

When he got back to the living room, Matt had changed position, into a cross-legged lotus-looking pose. His eyes were shut, and his head was tilted, just a little: he looked dreamy, and soft, and Foggy could see his erection through his sweatpants and the way his nipples had perked up, _son of a bitch_ , this was unfair. 

“I moved,” Matt said, slow: Foggy sat down on the couch next to him, put his hand in Matt's hair, because that seemed to produce excellent results. “You mind?” and it sounded like every test every nervous, jumpy sub had ever tried to catch Foggy with, oh _Matt_. That was a softball, please. 

“Do I mind that you're sitting with your legs spread so I can see how hard you are?” He stroked Matt's hair, wary of pulling at any knots or hitting any scabs. “Not particularly, no.” 

 

**

“Drink your coffee,” Foggy said. Matt leaned into him. Didn't raise his hands. _Oh christ_. Foggy felt like he couldn't quite catch his breath; this was going to be the death of him. Fuck. 

“I really don't mind,” Matt said. Foggy was honestly never going to get enough of this sleepy, weirdly affectionate, almost relaxed Matt; he wanted to shiver, he wanted to get him naked, he wanted – a lot of things, and it was important to not be a dick, here. “It's not a big deal, I – I want to,” and turned to _nuzzle at Foggy's boner_ , oh god. 

“Matt,” he said; his hand had slid out of Matt's hair and he could feel the hard bone of Matt's jaw, the prickle of his stubble. He couldn't quite look at him, just yet. “It's a big deal to me, buddy.” 

He hadn't thought that Matt could get any more relaxed, any more vulnerable, but Matt's lids fell shut again and he took a slow breath that seemed to start at the base of his spine and run up to the top of his scalp, opening him up like a – like a fucking flower. Foggy watched: it was incredible, the way his legs fell open, just a little more, and he went boneless. And he smiled. Foggy had _missed_ seeing Matt smiling like this. “Oh,” Matt said. 

**

Foggy hadn't ever really understood those people who said that life was fundamentally unfair: yeah, shit happened, sometimes cruel, unnecessary shit happened, but people were people. Most people were good, most people wanted good things to happen for themselves and everybody else. The idea that the universe might be cruel or unfair had never really sat right with him. 

Murphy's Law? Just people assigning more weight to the bad times in their lives than the good ones. 

But then again, he'd gotten Matt sitting _by his feet_ , dreamily sipping coffee with his eyes shut, hard as a rock with his head in Foggy's lap and explaining, for the sixtieth time, why vinyl was superior to MP3s. (Hard as a rock, and every minute or two Foggy would lean down and draw one finger down his neck, say, or pinch his nipple, hard, and Matt's voice would catch. Foggy had wanted to draw it out, a little more: it was the sweetest daydream of his heart, and also, crazily, one of the filthiest things he'd seen in at least a year, filthier because it felt so domestic.) 

And then Foggy had watched Matt come to attention; his head came up, his body shut down, tightened in on itself. 

“There's a fire,” he said. “Couple blocks over.” 

“Damnit,” Foggy said. 

Matt didn't have the suit at Foggy's place; they'd both planned on taking a couple of nights off, it looked like. He was slamming himself into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved henley, swearing: “do you have gloves,” he said, “or something – to cover my face,” and Foggy had absolutely no idea how he could possibly say _really bad idea right now Matt_ without being misunderstood. 

_Weak_ , Matt had said, and it hadn't sounded like a joke, the very last thing he should be doing was skedaddling like this in the middle of - 

Fuck. 

But this was _his responsibility_. 

“Fire department's not there?” he said, and yeah, there it was, sure as the sun and the moon, Matt paused for half a second. Just enough time for Foggy to _see_ him arranging himself for a fight that Foggy was _not going to give him goddamnit_. 

“Stairwell's collapsed,” Matt told him, briefly. “There are people still in there.” 

“Go get 'em, tiger.” Foggy said, thinking _this is going to be a fucking disaster_ , “hold up, let me get a wet handkerchief or something to wrap around your face.” 

Matt made absolutely no effort to hide his astonishment, which was another sign that Foggy absolutely should not let him leave right now, but. “Let” had always been a strong word, when it came to Matt. 

“Come back when you're done,” Foggy said. 

Matt paused by Foggy's fire escape, already tying the wet handkerchief around his face, and his voice had gone funny and thoughtful when he said “yeah, okay.” 

He didn't come back that night, of course.


	3. Chapter 3

“You okay?” Foggy said, next day, when Matt came in an hour late with a smoke-rough voice and eyes that still looked a little red around the edges. 

“Fine,” Matt said, flat. He looked – depressed, damnit. Jumpy around Foggy. Hopefully it was just the side effects of running around like a loon pulling people out of burning buildings. He could just be tired, it was possible; Foggy had caught the thirty seconds the local news spent on the tenement fire (nobody died, probably not arson, Were Poor People Ruining Hell's Kitchen With Their Slovenly Flammable Housing?) and had trawled twitter, trying to get an idea of what exactly was happening. Nobody mentioned Matt, which was good. 

It wasn't like he was trying to be a creeper, he just noticed stuff. The way Matt normally didn't worry about where Foggy was, in the room, the way that Matt would ordinarily turn his back to Foggy. Yeah. Not that day, after all, and he was weirdly jumpy and distracted. 

**

So Foggy had thought that he'd seen Matt being dodgy and evasive _before_ , but that didn't hold a candle to the way Matt was now: careful. Polite. Smiling. 

Never more than ten seconds away from bolting out the door, if he thought Foggy was making any attempt to corner him. 

**

Karen had to pee eventually. When she got up and left the front office Foggy didn't bother to try to catch Matt, just stayed right at his desk and said, in a low-to-medium range, “would you trust me to know what the hell I'm doing? I trust you to know how to handle the Daredevil shit.” 

He thought he heard the steady clatter of Matt's typing stop, briefly, but it wasn't like he was the one with superhearing. He didn't say anything then, but another hour and a half later his phone buzzed. Matt had sent him an email: _Come over to my place tonight. I'll have food._

Not the best scenario, but not the worst, either. Foggy could work with that. 

 

**

 

“Look,” Matt said, that night. Didn't even crack the grin that went along with that particular pun. “I told you I was fine.” 

“You never have food in your place,” Foggy said, suspiciously. 

Matt held his phone up, waved it at Foggy. “Delivery,” he said. 

“Pizza?” Foggy asked. “Oh man, tell me it's pizza, I am _starving_.” 

“You're asking me?” Matt said. 

“Yeah, why would - “

“I thought the whole point of this was - “ Matt gestured vaguely. “Sir yes sir.” 

Foggy rubbed his nose and considered the problem in front of him; it was possible that Matt was deliberately misunderstanding him, and it was also possible that Matt simply didn't get it, and it was possible that - “You ever done this before?” he asked. 

“No,” Matt said immediately, and he smiled at Foggy, suddenly comfortable in his own skin. “Thirty-one-year-old virgin, nice to meet you.” Great. _Matt_ soothed himself by being a sarcastic little shit and evading questions: good for him. Who was going to deal with _Foggy's_ incipient panic attack, was what he wanted to know. 

“Not what I meant,” Foggy said, and tried very hard to focus instead of thinking about what Matt must've _been_ like as a virgin, with those overstimulated senses, how easy it might've been to push him back into bed, spread his thighs, lick his nipples and bite his neck and see him get hit with just what his body could do, the _good_ things that his body could do, for the first time. He wasn't very successful. 

“That does it for you,” Matt observed. 

“Yeah,” he said, absently, and then: “wait, no, not like how you're thinking.” Matt was laughing, silently, yeah, but still laughing at him; Foggy swatted him on the thigh. “Just thinking about your crazy senses, man.”

“Yeah,” Matt said, wry, “some super power: I lasted about two minutes and she told everyone that it was because I was blind, it was a party.” 

“Oh, I can work with that,” Foggy said, automatically - “fuck, I'm sorry, man, she didn't know what she was missing.” 

“Really?” and Matt still sounded more incredulous than anything else, “most people -” and he cut himself off. Whoever he'd been fucking didn't even _deserve_ this guy, what the hell, Foggy loved Matt a lot but at the same time, he had a bad habit of framing _terrible things_ as innocuous pieces of his past, and that worried him. 

“I mean, unless it hurts to – how many times can you get off?”

Matt actually laughed. “Oh, I get off almost every time, but I'm not greedy, it's not a big deal, I just -” he rubbed the back of his neck. “Women like it, because I – I spend a lot of time on them.” 

“Ridiculous,” Foggy said. “This explains so much of your dating history, sheesh,” which was enough to get Matt to tense up a little bit. “Feed me,” he declared, and Matt went a little softer and tripped Foggy when he went for seconds (“that was supposed to be three dinners!” “i will bring you some of my aunt's lasagna, shut up.”). 

They ate the pizza. Matt wanted beer; Foggy didn't. They wound up talking about the guy who'd been tasked to head the IA investigation, since Fisk's arrest, and whether it would be wise to tell Brett the whole story (obviously yes, Foggy argued,) or whether that would just put him in unnecessary danger (guess who.) 

Foggy'd had these kind of nights a billion times, since Columbia, but this time there was the odd, hot uncertainty between them; he honestly wasn't sure if Matt meant that they should forget about the whole thing, or if this was a do-over. 

And then it got to be late, and Matt caught Foggy's wrist unerringly, and said “you can crash here, if you want.”

“Couch or bed, Matt?” Foggy asked, without even thinking about it, which is why it came out so – if he'd thought about it, he would've tried to soften it. Matt's hand tightened on Foggy's wrist; his mouth twisted. He still didn't look happy. 

“Your call,” he said. 

“Can you even sleep in a bed with me?” Foggy asked. It seemed wise. 

“Hm?”

“Matt. Can you?”

“Back to back, maybe,” Matt said, considering the idea. “I – probably not if you're touching me.” He looked a little wary and a little angry, like he didn't want to admit it. 

“You mind giving it a shot?” Foggy asked. “Your virtue is safe, man.” 

“I threw _that_ at you yesterday,” Matt said, but – oh, yeah, there he was – he was relaxed enough to nudge Foggy with his shoulder, instead of curling in on himself. 

 

**

 

Matt's life was _cartoonishly awful_ , he wanted to go on record with that. This wasn't Foggy's luck, that was for damn suree. He woke up at about two in the morning, got up to piss, stood in front of the toilet with the hallway light out, and came back to bed just in time to damn near get punched in the face by Matt, who lingered somewhere in the border between “nonviolently asleep” and “safely awake”. 

He didn't move. 

Matt didn't move, either, until he did; he collapsed face-first into the bed. Foggy was pretty sure he heard a “fuck” coming from the pillow. 

“Hey,” he said, sleepy, tired, Matt needed _so much_ fucking therapy, they all needed so much fucking therapy. There wasn't a lot of point to agonizing over what _almost_ happened, though, not when so many terrible things actually did happen. Matt had heard him, or smelled him, or something; he'd stopped himself. Foggy trusted him, but: “'snot a big deal, want me to sleep on the couch?” 

“No,” Matt said. Foggy could damn near hear the sad trombones of self-loathing from here, but there wasn't a lot he could do about it. Stay here. Talk to Matt. 

“Scoot your ass,” Foggy grumbled, and Matt did indeed scoot to let Foggy back in bed. Silk sheets, man. Maybe Matt had something there after all; it made for a nice change. 

 

**

 

“This is a bad idea,” Matt said, seriously. He'd woken up before Foggy, who'd come out to see him sitting at the dinged up yard sale kitchen table he'd rescued a couple of years back. Drinking coffee. 

Foggy thought about how Matt had looked, loose and happy in the early morning sun of his apartment a couple of days ago. How fucking brave he'd looked, and how happy. He couldn't find the words; if Matt really didn't want this, there was nothing Foggy could do about it, but - 

“You're a lawyer,” Matt said, and he looked wildly unhappy. “So _talk me into it_ , goddamnit.” He stood up, immediately, and walked to the window. 

Which was interesting, because it wasn't like Matt could exactly admire the view. It meant that he'd given Foggy his back, though. “Buddy,” Foggy said, making sure he didn't move from the kitchen table. “I was just thinking about how you're the bravest person I know.” For once, he hoped like hell that Matt was listening to his heart. 

“You're the one who almost got his nose broken last night.” 

“Details. That's – that's fixable, what, you think you're the only guy with PTSD I've ever slept with?” 

“Until right now, yeah,” Matt said. He didn't say anything else; well, that was a surprise. 

“I gotcha,” Foggy said, evenly, hoping like fuck it was true. Watched Matt drop his head, the way his shoulders stayed high and tight. “Matt,” he said, careful, he knew how to guide, he had years of experience, “take off your clothes.” 

Matt pulled his shirt off and dropped it to the ground; it crumpled in a heap. It was such an uncharacteristic move that Foggy wasn't quite sure what to do. The slide of leather as Matt yanked his belt off seemed unreasonably loud. His pants dropped, quick, economical, and he kicked them to the side. It hadn't helped; he stood naked in front of the window, and Foggy could see what looked like a bad sunburn along one arm, a red and blistered stripe along his right forearm. “Hey,” he said, looking for the way in, looking for – the right thing to say, here. “Normally, if people give me their backs, that's a good thing; does it work the same way with you? Or do you – not literally, I guess – but does the echolocation work in 360? Do you have eyes in the back of your head?” 

Matt stopped being angry and horrified by his own filthy weak homosexual desires (Foggy guessed) long enough to parse the question. “Uh,” he said. 

“Serious question, dork,” Foggy said. “I can't sit on this chair forever, my back is killing me. C'mon. Couch.” 

Matt paused when he got to the couch, clearly – oh, _good_ – clearly trying to decide if he wanted to sit next to Foggy or on the floor beside him. 

“In a perfect world, I'd say you, over my lap,” Foggy said, cheerfully enough. “I got a thing for your ass.” 

“You and everyone else,” Matt said, but he'd stopped gritting his teeth, Foggy could tell. 

“Hey, trust me, I'm on a streak, I've been right a lot lately.” 

Matt's ass was fucking perfect, and he tilted his hips up like a fucking tease, and Foggy put his hand on the nape of Matt's neck instead, stroked at his hairline with a thumb. “Good?” he asked. Matt was heavy and still smelled vaguely like smoke, even to Foggy; he must be reeking, with that sensitive nose of his. “Need it to hurt a little more, sweetheart?” Matt laughed. It sounded almost normal, not so choked up and bitter as he'd been all day. 

“I can sense what's going on behind me,” Matt said. He'd pillowed his head on his folded forearms and closed his eyes. He seemed to be soaking up Foggy's touch, goosebumps prickling as his skin woke up. “but no, I don't like people I don't know at my back.” 

Which was just about the perfect answer to the actual and implied questions that Foggy had asked, so he brought his palm down hard on Matt's ass; Matt's hips jerked, once, and Foggy got to see the bloom of red and white. “ _Thank_ you,” Foggy said, sincerely. “Good?” 

“I can take more than _that_ ,” Matt said, but the one blow had apparently knocked all the fight out of him. He sighed; Foggy was beginning to think those were sighs of relief. 

“Duh,” Foggy said. “Good?” 

“Oh yeah,” Matt said.


	4. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i guess they do the do? 
> 
> (this is really just rehoming a sad pathetic "sex" scene i wrote earlier i guess it wanted to go here?)

(Six months later, maybe, when it's started feeling less like a fight and more like a conversation, to Matt. 

Foggy's been telling him it's not a fight for months, but it took him a while to believe it.) 

 

"Hey, spread your legs a little wider, yeah?" Foggy asked, and Matt shuddered. He _didn't want_ to because it was bad enough, this - in Foggy's lap, the humid heat of him running down Matt's spine, hitting every inch of his back, back of his thighs? That was bad enough. If anyone asked him, he wouldn't be able to tell them exactly when he'd stopped being able to hold his own head up. Foggy, the bastard, had been fine with it; Matt had dropped his head back on Foggy's shoulder and Foggy had kissed his temple and put two fingers in his mouth (hot, salt, sweat, tasted like Matt's own precum, he'd sucked and he'd wanted to bite but then Foggy had rubbed a thumb over his lip and he'd lost track of what he was doing) and _kept going_ , and it was. 

"No?" Foggy asked. He sounded relaxed, a little lazy. "That's fine, buddy, I've got you, we can take a little break," and Matt _whined_. A break, in this context, meant Foggy taking his lube-slick fingers and rubbing slow circles around Matt's nipples, sometimes infrequently brushing a thumb across one - oh! - while he squirmed and twitched and tried really hard not to thrust into the air. 

"You're doing so good," Foggy told him. Whispered it, practically, in his ear, like it was a secret. 

"You're a rat bastard," Matt got out, which had the desired result: Foggy _pinched_ a nipple, hot surge straight from that to his dick, it was - it was - oh - it was almost fucking enough, not quite enough but almost, and his face was wet, this was not the first time he'd gone right up to the edge without going over. He might - he wanted - he could feel it everywhere, in his ass, in his chest, in his fucking knees. 

The next breath Foggy took went out a little shaky. "Shit, man," he said, and Matt could smell it when _his_ cock twitched, let out a little spurt of precum: he could feel it, because he was sitting in Foggy's lap and it was - that felt good, at this point, he - "did you - you could totally come just from that, huh?" 

"yeah," Matt said, because he could, he could, it wasn't what he wanted but he could, and - and if Foggy wanted to do it that was that was okay with him, honestly. He had gone a little dizzy: he could feel the hairs on Foggy's thighs, rubbing up against the backs of his legs, and he could hear Foggy's heart beating fast and hard, and he - "yeah, that's - do that, please," and Foggy snorted. 

"Hey, you think you could handle it if I blew you?" 

"Yes," Matt said, _yes yes yes_. 

"Liar," Foggy said, and ran one finger just - just barely not touching Matt's dick, all the way up to the tip, so Matt could feel the heat of his hand. 

 

**

He wound up spreading his legs as far as he could, which. Meant. That technically speaking, he was losing more leverage for every inch he spread them, felt Foggy taking more of his weight. He told Foggy about that, because he was in a weird - place - where everything felt very shivery, he could feel air over his skin, the rasp of Foggy's stubble when he kissed him on the temple. 

"Yeah?" Foggy asked. "That's fine, you relax, I got you."

"I can't _relax_ ," Matt said, which was true, not while Foggy was stroking his dick, slow, no particular rhythm, using enough lube that it dripped. A drop of lube had escaped, was running a maddening, ticklish trail down to his balls. His pubes were wet, it was - 

"Just a suggestion," Foggy said. "We're gonna be here for a while," and let go right after he said that, because he _knew_ Matt, he knew what saying that would do. His hips stuttered anyways, not quite getting there but _almost_.


End file.
